MANSFIELD PARK ¢ò
¡¡¡¡CHAPTER XVII
¡¡¡¡
It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria.
Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond
their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no
longer anything to disturb them in their darling project,
and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change,
with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way.
Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the
scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular;
their point was gained: he was to act, and he was
driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only.
Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he
had maintained before, and they were both as much the better
as the happier for the descent.
¡¡¡¡
They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion,
betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners
of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape
to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they
had been forced into admitting him against their inclination.
"To have it quite in their own family circle was what
they had particularly wished. A stranger among them
would have been the destruction of all their comfort";
and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope
as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready,
in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything.
It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris
offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him
that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good
deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook
to count his speeches.
¡¡¡¡
"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige
us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_."
¡¡¡¡
"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act."
¡¡¡¡
"Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny
felt herself again in danger, and her indifference
to the danger was beginning to fail her already.
¡¡¡¡
There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park
on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely
in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal
of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but
one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting
such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it."
And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet,
if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it
to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford,
Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed
to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted;
and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart
during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund,
brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to
whom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind
exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit
in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration.
She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here.
Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could
not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment
were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not
acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made
her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation.
Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed
an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself
which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around
her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had
their object of interest, their part, their dress,
their favourite scene, their friends and confederates:
all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons,
or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested.
She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no share
in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the
midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude
of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could
almost think anything would have been preferable to this.
Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had
honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered;
her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,
and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger
of envying her the character she had accepted.
But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her
that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never
have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even
the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining
a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must
condemn altogether.
¡¡¡¡
Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one
amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself.
Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly.
¡¡¡¡
Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she
had very long allowed and even sought his attentions,
with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought
to have been their cure; and now that the conviction
of his preference for Maria had been forced on her,
she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation,
or any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself.
She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity
as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;
or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with
forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of
the others.
¡¡¡¡
For a day or two after the affront was given,
Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do it away by the usual
attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared
enough about it to persevere against a few repulses;
and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time
for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to
the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence,
as quietly putting an end to what might ere long
have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant.
She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play,
and sitting by disregarded; but as it was not a matter
which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the
best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a
most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever
had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew
her former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him
not to risk his tranquillity by too much admiration there,
and then gladly take her share in anything that brought
cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did
so particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.
¡¡¡¡
"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,"
was her observation to Mary.
¡¡¡¡
"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. "I imagine
both sisters are."
¡¡¡¡
"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint
of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth!"
¡¡¡¡
"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth.
It may do _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's
property and independence, and wish them in other hands;
but I never think of him. A man might represent the county
with such an estate; a man might escape a profession
and represent the county."
¡¡¡¡
"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir
Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some borough,
but there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing
anything yet."
¡¡¡¡
"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he
comes home," said Mary, after a pause. "Do you remember
Hawkins Browne's 'Address to Tobacco,' in imitation
of Pope?--
¡¡¡¡
Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.
¡¡¡¡
I will parody them--
¡¡¡¡
Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.
¡¡¡¡
Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend
upon Sir Thomas's return."
¡¡¡¡
"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable
when you see him in his family, I assure you. I do not think
we do so well without him. He has a fine dignified manner,
which suits the head of such a house, and keeps everybody
in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher
now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep
Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria
Bertram cares for Henry. I am sure _Julia_ does not,
or she would not have flirted as she did last night with
Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends,
I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."
¡¡¡¡
"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry
stept in before the articles were signed."
¡¡¡¡
"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done;
and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him
seriously and make him know his own mind; and if he
means nothing, we will send him off, though he is Henry,
for a time."
¡¡¡¡
Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned
it not, and though it escaped the notice of many of her
own family likewise. She had loved, she did love still,
and she had all the suffering which a warm temper and a
high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment
of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense
of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she
was capable only of angry consolations. The sister
with whom she was used to be on easy terms was now become
her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;
and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing
end to the attentions which were still carrying on there,
some punishment to Maria for conduct so shameful towards
herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth. With no material
fault of temper, or difference of opinion, to prevent
their being very good friends while their interests
were the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this,
had not affection or principle enough to make them merciful
or just, to give them honour or compassion. Maria felt
her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia;
and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry
Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy,
and bring a public disturbance at last.
¡¡¡¡
Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there
was no outward fellowship between them. Julia made
no communication, and Fanny took no liberties. They were
two solitary sufferers, or connected only by Fanny's consciousness.
¡¡¡¡
The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to
Julia's discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause,
must be imputed to the fullness of their own minds.
They were totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by
the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did
not immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his
theatrical and his real part, between Miss Crawford's
claims and his own conduct, between love and consistency,
was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy
in contriving and directing the general little matters
of the company, superintending their various dresses
with economical expedient, for which nobody thanked her,
and saving, with delighted integrity, half a crown here and
there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for watching
the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.
¡¡¡¡CHAPTER XVIII
¡¡¡¡
Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors,
actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward;
but though no other great impediments arose, Fanny found,
before many days were past, that it was not all uninterrupted
enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had
not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and
delight as had been almost too much for her at first.
Everybody began to have their vexation. Edmund had many.
Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter arrived
from town, and was at work, much to the increase
of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of
their proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really
guided by him as to the privacy of the representation,
was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way.
Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's
slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting.
He had learned his part--all his parts, for he took
every trifling one that could be united with the Butler,
and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day
thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of
the insignificance of all his parts together, and make
him more ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.
¡¡¡¡
Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often
the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints
and the distresses of most of them. _She_ knew that
Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully;
that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford;
that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible;
that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund
was behindhand with his part, and that it was misery
to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting
a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that poor
Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him:
_his_ complaint came before her as well as the rest;
and so decided to her eye was her cousin Maria's
avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the rehearsal
of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she
had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_.
So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying,
she found everybody requiring something they had not,
and giving occasion of discontent to the others.
Everybody had a part either too long or too short;
nobody would attend as they ought; nobody would remember on
which side they were to come in; nobody but the complainer
would observe any directions.
¡¡¡¡
Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment
from the play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well,
and it was a pleasure to _her_ to creep into the theatre,
and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in spite of the
feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria. Maria, she
also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first
rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience;
and sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator,
was often very useful. As far as she could judge,
Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all:
he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,
more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him
as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor,
and on this point there were not many who differed from her.
Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness
and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth
turned to her with a black look, and said, "Do you think
there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life
and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves,
to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,
set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion."
¡¡¡¡
From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy,
which Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at
little pains to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's
ever attaining to the knowledge of his two-and-forty
speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything
_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that
except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part
was not more considerable, and deferred coming over to
Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal
to comprehend all his scenes; but the others aspired at
nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the first
line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter
through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness,
was at great pains to teach him how to learn, giving him
all the helps and directions in her power, trying to make
an artificial memory for him, and learning every word
of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.
¡¡¡¡
Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she
certainly had; but with all these, and other claims
on her time and attention, she was as far from finding
herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from
having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion.
The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have
been unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all;
she was perhaps as much at peace as any.
¡¡¡¡
There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover,
in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris
thought her quite as well off as the rest, was evident
by the manner in which she claimed it--"Come, Fanny,"
she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must
not be always walking from one room to the other,
and doing the lookings-on at your ease, in this way;
I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I
can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak
without sending for any more satin; and now I think
you may give me your help in putting it together.
There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice.
It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive
part to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you:
but if nobody did more than _you_, we should not get on
very fast"
¡¡¡¡
Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting
any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--
¡¡¡¡
"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted:
it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be
very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still;
and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean
to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about,
Fanny? you have never told me."
¡¡¡¡
"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not
one of those who can talk and work at the same time.
It is about Lovers' Vows."
¡¡¡¡
"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will
be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will
give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once."
¡¡¡¡
"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed
Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two--
there is very little sense in a play without a curtain--
and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up
into very handsome festoons."
¡¡¡¡
Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did
not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow
a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed,
Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together
for the first time; the third act would bring a scene
between them which interested her most particularly,
and which she was longing and dreading to see how they
would perform. The whole subject of it was love--
a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,
and very little short of a declaration of love be made by
the lady.
¡¡¡¡
She had read and read the scene again with many painful,
many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their
representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting.
She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it,
even in private.
¡¡¡¡
The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued,
and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated.
She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions,
but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent,
anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her
work to the East room, that she might have no concern
in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary
rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was
just proposing, desirous at once of having her time
to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth.
A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two
ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change
in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated
in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour,
when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance
of Miss Crawford.
¡¡¡¡
"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear
Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way
to you on purpose to entreat your help."
¡¡¡¡
Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself
mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked
at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern.
¡¡¡¡
"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay
here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me
my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would
but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_ obliged!
I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--
by ourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way;
and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through
it with _him_, till I have hardened myself a little;
for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good,
won't you?"
¡¡¡¡
Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could
not give them in a very steady voice.
¡¡¡¡
"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?"
continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is.
I did not think much of it at first--but, upon my word.
There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and _that_.
How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?
Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes
all the difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I
may fancy _you_ him, and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look
of _his_ sometimes."
¡¡¡¡
"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness;
but I must _read_ the part, for I can say very little
of it."
¡¡¡¡
"_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book,
of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand
for you to bring forward to the front of the stage.
There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a theatre,
I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and
kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson.
What would your governess and your uncle say to see them
used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in upon us
just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing
all over the house. Yates is storming away in the
dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre
is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers,
Agatha and Frederick. If _they_ are not perfect,
I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in upon
them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at
one of the times when they were trying _not_ to embrace,
and Mr. Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look
a little queer, so I turned it off as well as I could,
by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent Agatha;
there is something so _maternal_ in her manner,
so completely _maternal_ in her voice and countenance.'
Was not that well done of me? He brightened up directly.
Now for my soliloquy."
¡¡¡¡
She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling
which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly
calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly
feminine as to be no very good picture of a man. With such
an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at
the door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund,
the next moment, suspended it all.
¡¡¡¡
Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each
of the three on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund
was come on the very same business that had brought
Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely
to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book,
and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him,
and help him to prepare for the evening, without knowing
Miss Crawford to be in the house; and great was the joy and
animation of being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes,
and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.
¡¡¡¡
_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits
sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming
too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having
been sought by either. They must now rehearse together.
Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,
not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer,
and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them.
She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic,
and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all
their faults; but from doing so every feeling within
her shrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it:
had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience
must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation.
She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate
for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must
be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than enough;
for she could not always pay attention to the book.
In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the
increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed
the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help.
It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was
thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than
she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the scene
was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to
the compliments each was giving the other; and when again
alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined
to believe their performance would, indeed, have such
nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit,
and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself.
Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand
the brunt of it again that very day.
¡¡¡¡
The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts
was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant
and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose
as soon as they could after dinner; and every one concerned
was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed
a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion.
Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end;
Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal,
and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away.
All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon,
the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception
of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was
in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted it up
as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only
the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.
¡¡¡¡
They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there
was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant,
professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit
with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.
¡¡¡¡
"Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity.
"He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the
pheasant today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate,
and has been suffering ever since".
¡¡¡¡
Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance
was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful
conformity made her always valuable amongst them;
but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not act,
they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her.
The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed.
What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair.
After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be
turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say,
"If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part."
She was immediately surrounded by supplications;
everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is
not _very_ disagreeable to you."
¡¡¡¡
But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea
of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well?
Or why had not she rather gone to her own room,
as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending
the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate
and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away.
She was properly punished.
¡¡¡¡
"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford,
with renewed entreaty.
¡¡¡¡
"And I do believe she can say every word of it,"
added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other
day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part."
¡¡¡¡
Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered,
as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even
fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield.
She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she
was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared to begin.
¡¡¡¡
They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their
own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other
part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door
of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it,
with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come!
He is in the hall at this moment."
¡¡¡¡CHAPTER XIX
¡¡¡¡
How is the consternation of the party to be described?
To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror.
Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction.
Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere.
Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made
it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations,
not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with
an altered countenance was looking at some other,
and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome,
most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider
it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening,
and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every
other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation
or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting,
"What will become of us? what is to be done now?"
It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the
corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.
¡¡¡¡
Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and
bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost
in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance,
Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to
Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart;
and as soon as she could notice this, and see that,
in spite of the shock of her words, he still kept his
station and retained her sister's hand, her wounded
heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red
as she had been white before, she turned out of the room,
saying, "_I_ need not be afraid of appearing before him."
¡¡¡¡
Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment
the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity
of doing something. A very few words between them
were sufficient. The case admitted no difference
of opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly.
Maria joined them with the same intent, just then the
stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which
had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support.
Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment,
a moment of such peculiar proof and importance,
was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it
as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was
equal even to encounter her father. They walked off,
utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of,
"Shall I go too? Had not I better go too? Will not it
be right for me to go too?" but they were no sooner
through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer
the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means
to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay,
sent him after the others with delighted haste.
¡¡¡¡
Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates.
She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her
own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection
was much too humble to give her any idea of classing
herself with his children, she was glad to remain
behind and gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation
and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest,
by the right of a disposition which not even innocence
could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting:
all her former habitual dread of her uncle was returning,
and with it compassion for him and for almost every one
of the party on the development before him, with solicitude
on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found a seat,
where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these
fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under
any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation,
lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival
as a most untoward event, and without mercy wishing
poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage,
or were still in Antigua.
¡¡¡¡
The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates,
from better understanding the family, and judging more
clearly of the mischief that must ensue. The ruin of
the play was to them a certainty: they felt the total
destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand;
while Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption,
a disaster for the evening, and could even suggest the
possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea,
when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,
and he might be at leisure to be amused by it.
The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon
agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home
and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's
accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.
But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much
of parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive
that anything of the kind was necessary; and therefore,
thanking them, said, "he preferred remaining where he was,
that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman
handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not
think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away."
¡¡¡¡
Fanny was just beginning to collect herself,
and to feel that if she staid longer behind it might
seem disrespectful, when this point was settled, and being
commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,
saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself
to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.
¡¡¡¡
Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door;
and after pausing a moment for what she knew would not come,
for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied
to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the lights
of the drawing-room, and all the collected family,
were before her. As she entered, her own name caught
her ear. Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him,
and saying, "But where is Fanny? Why do not I see
my little Fanny?"--and on perceiving her, came forward
with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately,
and observing with decided pleasure how much she was grown!
Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look. She was
quite oppressed. He had never been so kind, so _very_
kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed,
his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that
had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness.
He led her nearer the light and looked at her again--
inquired particularly after her health, and then,
correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire,
for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine
blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face,
he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement
in health and beauty. He inquired next after her family,
especially William: and his kindness altogether was such
as made her reproach herself for loving him so little,
and thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having
courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he
was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged, worn look
of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling
was increased, and she was miserable in considering
how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst
on him.
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at
his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire.
He had the best right to be the talker; and the delight
of his sensations in being again in his own house,
in the centre of his family, after such a separation,
made him communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree;
and he was ready to give every information as to his voyage,
and answer every question of his two sons almost before
it was put. His business in Antigua had latterly been
prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither
in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet;
and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events,
his arrivals and departures, were most promptly delivered,
as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heartfelt
satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself
more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune
in finding them all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--
all collected together exactly as he could have wished,
but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten:
a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
had already met him, and with pointed attention he was
now included in the objects most intimately connected
with Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in
Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
him already.
¡¡¡¡
By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really
extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were
so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer
agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes,
and still remained so sensibly animated as to put away
her work, move Pug from her side, and give all her
attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.
She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure:
her own time had been irreproachably spent during his absence:
she had done a great deal of carpet-work, and made many
yards of fringe; and she would have answered as freely
for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the young
people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see
him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused
and her whole comprehension filled by his narratives,
that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully she
must have missed him, and how impossible it would have
been for her to bear a lengthened absence.
¡¡¡¡
Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness
to her sister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many
fears of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present
state of his house should be known, for her judgment
had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive
caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's
pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law entered,
she could hardly be said to shew any sign of alarm;
but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return.
It had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent
for out of the room, and seeing him first, and having
to spread the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas,
with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves
of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but
the butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously
into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded
of an office on which she had always depended, whether his
arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded;
and was now trying to be in a bustle without having
anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important
where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence.
Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone
to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted
the footmen with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas
resolutely declined all dinner: he would take nothing,
nothing till tea came--he would rather wait for tea.
Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different;
and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,
when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height,
she burst through his recital with the proposal of soup.
"Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be
a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin
of soup."
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas could not be provoked. "Still the same
anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,"
was his answer. "But indeed I would rather have nothing
but tea."
¡¡¡¡
"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for
tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little;
he seems behindhand to-night." She carried this point,
and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.
¡¡¡¡
At length there was a pause. His immediate communications
were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully
around him, now at one, now at another of the beloved circle;
but the pause was not long: in the elation of her
spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were
the sensations of her children upon hearing her say,
"How do you think the young people have been amusing
themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have been acting.
We have been all alive with acting."
¡¡¡¡
"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"
¡¡¡¡
"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."
¡¡¡¡
"The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily,
and with affected unconcern; "but it is not worth
while to bore my father with it now. You will hear
enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying,
by way of doing something, and amusing my mother,
just within the last week, to get up a few scenes,
a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost
since October began, that we have been nearly confined
to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out
a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days,
but there has been no attempting anything since.
The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took
the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace
between us, and might each have killed six times as many,
but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you,
as much as you could desire. I do not think you will find
your woods by any means worse stocked than they were.
_I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my
life as this year. I hope you will take a day's sport
there yourself, sir, soon."
¡¡¡¡
For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick
feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards
brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he found
that he could not be any longer in the house without
just looking into his own dear room, every agitation
was returning. He was gone before anything had been
said to prepare him for the change he must find there;
and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance.
Edmund was the first to speak--
¡¡¡¡
"Something must be done," said he.
¡¡¡¡
"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria,
still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart,
and caring little for anything else. "Where did you leave
Miss Crawford, Fanny?"
¡¡¡¡
Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
¡¡¡¡
"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go
and fetch him. He will be no bad assistant when it
all comes out."
¡¡¡¡
To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to
witness the first meeting of his father and his friend.
Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles
burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it,
to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general
air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the
bookcase from before the billiard-room door struck
him especially, but he had scarcely more than time
to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds
from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther.
Some one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did
not know the voice--more than talking--almost hallooing.
He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that moment in having
the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,
found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed
to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to knock him
down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving
Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he
had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals,
Tom Bertram entered at the other end of the room;
and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping
his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity and
amazement on this his first appearance on any stage,
and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron
Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such
an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would
not have lost upon any account. It would be the last--
in all probability--the last scene on that stage; but he
was sure there could not be a finer. The house would
close with the greatest eclat.
¡¡¡¡
There was little time, however, for the indulgence
of any images of merriment. It was necessary for him
to step forward, too, and assist the introduction,
and with many awkward sensations he did his best.
Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance
of cordiality which was due to his own character,
but was really as far from pleased with the necessity of
the acquaintance as with the manner of its commencement.
Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known
to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend,"
another of the hundred particular friends of his son,
exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of being
again at home, and all the forbearance it could supply,
to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus
bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous
exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced
in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young
man whom he felt sure of disapproving, and whose easy
indifference and volubility in the course of the first
five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.
¡¡¡¡
Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily
wishing he might be always as well disposed to give them
but partial expression, began to see, more clearly than
he had ever done before, that there might be some ground
of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance
his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room;
and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate
of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond
a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were enough
for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir
Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few
words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal
of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement,
the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together,
Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not
lost on all.
¡¡¡¡
"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he
sat down; "I found myself in it rather unexpectedly.
Its vicinity to my own room--but in every respect, indeed,
it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest suspicion
of your acting having assumed so serious a character.
It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge
by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit."
And then he would have changed the subject, and sipped
his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue;
but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thomas's meaning,
or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow
him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others
with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on
the topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions
and remarks relative to it, and finally would make him hear
the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford.
Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to
offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion
of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking, from the beginning
to the end of the story; and when it was over, could give
him no other assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.
¡¡¡¡
"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom,
after a moment's thought. "My friend Yates brought the
infection from Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things
always spread, you know, sir--the faster, probably,
from _your_ having so often encouraged the sort of thing
in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again."
¡¡¡¡
Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible,
and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they
had done and were doing: told him of the gradual
increase of their views, the happy conclusion of their
first difficulties, and present promising state of affairs;
relating everything with so blind an interest as made him
not only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many
of his friends as they sat, the change of countenance,
the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him
even from seeing the expression of the face on which his
own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow
contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his
daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter,
and speaking a language, a remonstrance, a reproof,
which _he_ felt at his heart. Not less acutely was it
felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her
aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself,
saw all that was passing before her. Such a look
of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never
have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any
degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's
look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended;
what have you been about?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle,
and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh, not to _him_!
Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!"
¡¡¡¡
Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas,
we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived
this evening. We were going through the three first acts,
and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company is
now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,
that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will
give us the honour of your company to-morrow evening,
I should not be afraid of the result. We bespeak
your indulgence, you understand, as young performers;
we bespeak your indulgence."
¡¡¡¡
"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir
Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal."
And with a relenting smile, he added, "I come home
to be happy and indulgent." Then turning away towards
any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss
Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield.
Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"
¡¡¡¡
Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he
being entirely without particular regard for either,
without jealousy either in love or acting, could speak
very handsomely of both. "Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant,
gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl."
¡¡¡¡
Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "I do not say
he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you should
tell your father he is not above five feet eight,
or he will be expecting a well-looking man."
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked
with some surprise at the speaker.
¡¡¡¡
"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my
opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing.
It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond
of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal
better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,
and doing nothing."
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving
smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject
so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction.
That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many
scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural;
and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity,
for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much
exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this,
is a most favourable circumstance for yourself,
and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible
of the importance of having an ally of such weight."
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion
in better words than he could find himself. He was
aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth;
but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions
than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value
him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others
not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do
with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt,
most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion,
and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards
preserving that good opinion a little longer.
¡¡¡¡CHAPTER XX
¡¡¡¡
Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his
father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole
acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only
as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives
to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness,
that his concession had been attended with such partial
good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful.
He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing
unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them
whose conduct he could mention without some necessity
of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less
to blame," said he, "every one of us, excepting Fanny.
Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout;
who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily
against it from first to last. She never ceased to think
of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you
could wish."
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among
such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son
had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed,
for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund,
meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression,
and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon
as he could, after the house had been cleared of every
object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its
proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with
his other children: he was more willing to believe they
felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.
The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything,
the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient.
¡¡¡¡
There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could
not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct.
He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having
hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent
what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young
people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan;
they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;
but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed,
of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore,
he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures,
her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such
measures and such amusements should have been suggested.
Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being
silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she
was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the
impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would
not have admitted that her influence was insufficient--
that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource
was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn
the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel.
She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise
as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort
of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance
at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from
her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust
and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail,
whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen,
and more than one bad servant been detected. But her chief
strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory
was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths.
_There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all
the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria
to any effect. "If I had not been active," said she,
"and made a point of being introduced to his mother,
and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit,
I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have
come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable
modest young man who wants a great deal of encouragement,
and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we
had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was
ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister,
and at last I did persuade her. You know the distance
to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads
almost impassable, but I did persuade her."
¡¡¡¡
"I know how great, how justly great, your influence
is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more
concerned that it should not have been."
¡¡¡¡
"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the
roads _that_ day! I thought we should never have got
through them, though we had the four horses of course;
and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his great love
and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box
on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring
him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him at last;
but he was very bad all the winter--and this was such a day,
I could not help going to him up in his room before we set
off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig;
so I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady
and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is,
and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now,
that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I soon
found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I
hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my
heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got
into the rough lanes about Stoke, where, what with frost
and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything
you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him.
And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away!
You know how I always feel for the horses. And when we got
to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did?
You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up.
I did indeed. It might not be saving them much, but it
was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease
and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals.
I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not regard.
My object was accomplished in the visit."
¡¡¡¡
"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth
any trouble that might be taken to establish it.
There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners,
but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his
opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet
family party to the bustle and confusion of acting.
He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish."
¡¡¡¡
"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better
you will like him. He is not a shining character,
but he has a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed
to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,
for everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word,
Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth
were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas
in greater respect.'"
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions,
disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest
satisfied with the conviction that where the present
pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness
did sometimes overpower her judgment.
¡¡¡¡
It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any
of them occupied but a small part of it. He had to
reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his
Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff;
to examine and compute, and, in the intervals
of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens,
and nearest plantations; but active and methodical,
he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat
as master of the house at dinner, he had also set the
carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately
put up in the billiard-room, and given the scene-painter
his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing belief
of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the
floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges,
and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied;
and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would
suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers'
Vows in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye
¡¡¡¡
Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source.
He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of
the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining,
with proper apologies for his father's particularity,
what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely
as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed
in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck;
and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy
towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister,
he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on
the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a
little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly
while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home;
but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat
round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser
to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it
without opposition. He had known many disagreeable
fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences
they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life,
had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral,
so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man
to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might
be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates
did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof.
¡¡¡¡
The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost
every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas
called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want
of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation.
It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford
should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she
was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without
seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting
to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too,
was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early
with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped
for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him
the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen
no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard
no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation
and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was
the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families
had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never
passed before, since August began, without bringing them
together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day;
and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,
did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish
enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering.
Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up
with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to
Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered
into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family.
Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight
and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to
her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were
they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford,
who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter
in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming
the play after the present happy interruption (with
a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case,
he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time
required by the party: he was going away immediately,
being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there
were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should
hold himself positively engaged, he should break through
every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his
uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted.
The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.
¡¡¡¡
"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"
said he; "I will attend you from any place in England,
at an hour's notice."
¡¡¡¡
It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not
his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency,
"I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is
all over--entirely at an end" (looking significantly
at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday,
and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew
how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath.
You will find nobody there."
¡¡¡¡
"It is about my uncle's usual time."
¡¡¡¡
"When do you think of going?"
¡¡¡¡
"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."
¡¡¡¡
"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question;
and while this branch of the subject was under discussion,
Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing
to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness.
¡¡¡¡
To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had
already said, with only a softened air and stronger
expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions
or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,
voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might
be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence.
The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand
and the heart were alike motionless and passive now!
Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe.
She had not long to endure what arose from listening
to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury
the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society;
for general civilities soon called his notice from her,
and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged,
was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her
hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow,
and she might seek directly all that solitude could do
for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house,
and within two hours afterwards from the parish;
and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised
in Maria and Julia Bertram.
¡¡¡¡
Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was
beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him not,
she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge.
She did not want exposure to be added to desertion.
Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
¡¡¡¡
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence.
She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing.
By all the others it was mentioned with regret;
and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--
from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard,
to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote.
Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and wonder that
his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing;
and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself
in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was
it possible for even _her_ activity to keep pace with
her wishes?
¡¡¡¡
Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise.
In _his_ departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest:
wanting to be alone with his family, the presence of a
stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;
but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive,
it was every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome,
but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he
became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent
to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good
wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey,
as he walked with him to the hall-door, were given with
genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the
destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield,
the removal of everything appertaining to the play:
he left the house in all the soberness of its general
character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it,
to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of
its existence.
¡¡¡¡
Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight
that might have distressed him. The curtain, over which
she had presided with such talent and such success,
went off with her to her cottage, where she happened
to be particularly in want of green baize.
¡¡¡¡CHAPTER XXI
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of
the family, independent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government,
Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their
society sent away, and the spirits of many others saddened--
it was all sameness and gloom compared with the past--
a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back
from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined,
at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter.
The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic
circle which he could solicit.
¡¡¡¡
Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings,
nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants.
"But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem
to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves.
I could wish my father were more sensible of their very
great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away.
I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected.
But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them.
They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England.
If he knew them better, he would value their society
as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort
of people he would like. We are sometimes a little
in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem
out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease.
Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings
pass away with more enjoyment even to my father."
¡¡¡¡
"Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion,
my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he
values the very quietness you speak of, and that the
repose of his own family circle is all he wants.
And it does not appear to me that we are more serious
than we used to be--I mean before my uncle went abroad.
As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same.
There was never much laughing in his presence; or,
if there is any difference, it is not more, I think,
than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first.
There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect
that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when
my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose,
when those they look up to are at home".
¡¡¡¡
"I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a
short consideration. "I believe our evenings are rather
returned to what they were, than assuming a new character.
The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong
the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before."
¡¡¡¡
"I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny.
"The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear
my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him
for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many
other things have done; but then I am unlike other people,
I dare say."
¡¡¡¡
"Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you
want to be told that you are only unlike other people
in being more wise and discreet? But when did you,
or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny?
Go to my father if you want to be complimented.
He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks,
and you will hear compliments enough: and though they
may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it,
and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."
¡¡¡¡
Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.
¡¡¡¡
"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--
and that is the long and the short of the matter.
Anybody but myself would have made something more of it,
and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your
uncle never did admire you till now--and now he does.
Your complexion is so improved!--and you have gained
so much countenance!--and your figure--nay, Fanny, do not
turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If you cannot
bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you?
You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of
being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing
up into a pretty woman."
¡¡¡¡
"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny,
distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing
that she was distressed, he had done with the subject,
and only added more seriously--
¡¡¡¡
"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in
every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more.
You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle."
¡¡¡¡
"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do.
Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade
last night?"
¡¡¡¡
"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed
up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be
inquired of farther."
¡¡¡¡
"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence!
And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word,
or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like--
I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself
off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure
in his information which he must wish his own daughters
to feel."
¡¡¡¡
"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you
the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice
and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking
of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words.
She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable!
She certainly understands _you_ better than you are
understood by the greater part of those who have known you
so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive,
from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions
of the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately,
did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks
of my father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man,
with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners;
but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve
may be a little repulsive. Could they be much together,
I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers.
I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not suppose
there is any dislike on his side."
¡¡¡¡
"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all
the rest of you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have
any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas's wishing just at
first to be only with his family, is so very natural,
that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while,
I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort
of way, allowing for the difference of the time of year."
¡¡¡¡
"This is the first October that she has passed in the country
since her infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham
the country; and November is a still more serious month,
and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious for her
not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."
¡¡¡¡
Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to
say nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--
her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance,
her friends, lest it should betray her into any observations
seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion
of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance,
and she began to talk of something else.
¡¡¡¡
"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you
and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home.
I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr. Rushworth."
¡¡¡¡
"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less
after to-morrow's visit, for we shall be five hours
in his company. I should dread the stupidity of the day,
if there were not a much greater evil to follow--
the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much
longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would
give something that Rushworth and Maria had never met."
¡¡¡¡
In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending
over Sir Thomas. Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth,
not all Mr. Rushworth's deference for him, could prevent
him from soon discerning some part of the truth--
that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant
in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed,
and without seeming much aware of it himself.
¡¡¡¡
He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning
to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to understand
_her_ feelings. Little observation there was necessary
to tell him that indifference was the most favourable
state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him.
Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her.
Advantageous as would be the alliance, and long standing
and public as was the engagement, her happiness must not be
sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted
on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,
she was repenting.
¡¡¡¡
With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her
his fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be
open and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience
should be braved, and the connexion entirely given up,
if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it.
He would act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's
struggle as she listened, and only a moment's: when her
father ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately,
decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She thanked
him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he
was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire
of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible of any
change of opinion or inclination since her forming it.
She had the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character
and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her happiness with
him.
¡¡¡¡
Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied,
perhaps, to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment
might have dictated to others. It was an alliance which
he could not have relinquished without pain; and thus
he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve.
Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society;
and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness
with him, speaking certainly without the prejudice,
the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.
Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never
supposed them to be so; but her comforts might not
be less on that account; and if she could dispense
with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
there would certainly be everything else in her favour.
A well-disposed young woman, who did not marry for love,
was in general but the more attached to her own family;
and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold
out the greatest temptation, and would, in all probability,
be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments.
Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,
happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture,
the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must
attend it; happy to secure a marriage which would bring
him such an addition of respectability and influence,
and very happy to think anything of his daughter's
disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.
¡¡¡¡
To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him.
She was in a state of mind to be glad that she had secured
her fate beyond recall: that she had pledged herself
anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from the possibility
of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,
and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth
in future, that her father might not be again suspecting her.
¡¡¡¡
Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first
three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield,
before her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she
had given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on
enduring his rival, her answer might have been different;
but after another three or four days, when there was no return,
no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart,
no hope of advantage from separation, her mind became
cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self
revenge could give.
¡¡¡¡
Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he
should not know that he had done it; he should not
destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity, too.
He should not have to think of her as pining in the
retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton
and London, independence and splendour, for _his_ sake.
Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it
at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She was less and less
able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.
The liberty which his absence had given was now become
absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield
as soon as possible, and find consolation in fortune
and consequence, bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit.
Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.
¡¡¡¡
To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation,
would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly
be more impatient for the marriage than herself.
In all the important preparations of the mind she
was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred
of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery
of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she
was to marry. The rest might wait. The preparations
of new carriages and furniture might wait for London
and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.
¡¡¡¡
The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon
appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient
for such arrangements as must precede the wedding.
¡¡¡¡
Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for
the fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected;
and very early in November removed herself, her maid,
her footman, and her chariot, with true dowager propriety,
to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton
in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly,
perhaps, in the animation of a card-table, as she had
ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same
month the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton
another mistress.
¡¡¡¡
It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed;
the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave
her away; her mother stood with salts in her hand,
expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry;
and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant.
Nothing could be objected to when it came under the
discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage
which conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia
from the church-door to Sotherton was the same chaise
which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before.
In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand
the strictest investigation.
¡¡¡¡
It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an
anxious father must feel, and was indeed experiencing much
of the agitation which his wife had been apprehensive
of for herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs. Norris,
most happy to assist in the duties of the day,
by spending it at the Park to support her sister's spirits,
and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in
a supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight;
for she had made the match; she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph,
that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life,
or could have the smallest insight into the disposition
of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.
¡¡¡¡
The plan of the young couple was to proceed,
after a few days, to Brighton, and take a house there
for some weeks. Every public place was new to Maria,
and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would
be time for the wider range of London.
¡¡¡¡
Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry
between the sisters had ceased, they had been gradually
recovering much of their former good understanding;
and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of them
exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.
Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first
consequence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager
for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might not
have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could
better bear a subordinate situation.
¡¡¡¡
Their departure made another material change at Mansfield,
a chasm which required some time to fill up. The family
circle became greatly contracted; and though the Miss
Bertrams had latterly added little to its gaiety,
they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;
and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered
about the house, and thought of them, and felt for them,
with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never
done much to deserve!
¡¡¡¡CHAPTER XXII
¡¡¡¡
Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of
her cousins. Becoming, as she then did, the only young
woman in the drawing-room, the only occupier of that
interesting division of a family in which she had hitherto
held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not
to be more looked at, more thought of and attended to,
than she had ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?"
became no uncommon question, even without her being
wanted for any one's convenience.
¡¡¡¡
Not only at home did her value increase, but at the
Parsonage too. In that house, which she had hardly
entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became
a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt
of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford.
Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued
by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any
change for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit,
persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing
by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities
of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.
¡¡¡¡
Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand
by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close
to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the
windows endeavouring to find shelter under the branches
and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises,
was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on
her part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood;
but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella,
there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed,
and to get into the house as fast as possible; and to poor
Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal
rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over
the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning,
and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond
themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of
a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss
Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful.
The value of an event on a wet day in the country was
most forcibly brought before her. She was all alive
again directly, and among the most active in being useful
to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at
first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny,
after being obliged to submit to all this attention,
and to being assisted and waited on by mistresses
and maids, being also obliged, on returning downstairs,
to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while
the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh
to see and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford,
and might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing
and dinner.
¡¡¡¡
The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant,
that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have
believed herself not in the way, and could she have
foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the
end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having
Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home,
with which she was threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm
that her absence in such weather might occasion at home,
she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being
out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly
aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage
aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain,
her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.
¡¡¡¡
It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny,
observing a harp in the room, asked some questions about it,
which soon led to an acknowledgment of her wishing very
much to hear it, and a confession, which could hardly
be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its
being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very
simple and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever
been at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival,
there had been no reason that she should; but Miss Crawford,
calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,
was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play
to you now?" and "What will you have?" were questions
immediately following with the readiest good-humour.
¡¡¡¡
She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener,
and a listener who seemed so much obliged, so full
of wonder at the performance, and who shewed herself
not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes,
straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair,
spoke what she felt must be done.
¡¡¡¡
"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we
shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first
moment of its holding up. Those clouds look alarming."
¡¡¡¡
"But they are passed over," said Fanny. "I have been
watching them. This weather is all from the south."
¡¡¡¡
"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it;
and you must not set forward while it is so threatening.
And besides, I want to play something more to you--a very
pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite.
You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."
¡¡¡¡
Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not
waited for that sentence to be thinking of Edmund,
such a memento made her particularly awake to his idea,
and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again,
perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it
appeared to her, with superior tone and expression;
and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever
was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go
away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to
call again, to take them in her walk whenever she could,
to come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it
necessary to be done, if no objection arose at home.
¡¡¡¡
Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took
place between them within the first fortnight after
the Miss Bertrams' going away--an intimacy resulting
principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something new,
and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings.
Fanny went to her every two or three days: it seemed a kind
of fascination: she could not be easy without going,
and yet it was without loving her, without ever thinking
like her, without any sense of obligation for being
sought after now when nobody else was to be had;
and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation
than occasional amusement, and _that_ often at the expense
of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry on
people or subjects which she wished to be respected.
She went, however, and they sauntered about together
many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather
being unusually mild for the time of year, and venturing
sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now
comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till,
in the midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on
the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they were forced,
by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few
yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth.
¡¡¡¡
"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around
her as they were thus sitting together one day; "every time
I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its
growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing
but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,
never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;
and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be
difficult to say whether most valuable as a convenience
or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years,
we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.
How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time,
and the changes of the human mind!" And following
the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added:
"If any one faculty of our nature may be called _more_
wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.
There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible
in the powers, the failures, the inequalities
of memory, than in any other of our intelligences.
The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable,
so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak;
and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!
We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers
of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past
finding out."
¡¡¡¡
Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing
to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own
mind to what she thought must interest.
¡¡¡¡
"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must
admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this.
There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk!
Not too much attempted!"
¡¡¡¡
"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does
very well for a place of this sort. One does not think
of extent _here_; and between ourselves, till I came
to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson
ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind."
¡¡¡¡
"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny,
in reply. "My uncle's gardener always says the soil here
is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth
of the laurels and evergreens in general. The evergreen!
How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature!
In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf
is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing
that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants
differing in the first rule and law of their existence.
You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,
especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt
to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix
one's eyes on the commonest natural production without
finding food for a rambling fancy."
¡¡¡¡
"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something
like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.;
and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery
equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had told
me a year ago that this place would be my home,
that I should be spending month after month here, as I
have done, I certainly should not have believed them.
I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreover,
the quietest five months I ever passed."
¡¡¡¡
"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe."
¡¡¡¡
"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,"
and her eyes brightened as she spoke, "take it all
and all, I never spent so happy a summer. But then,"
with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there is
no saying what it may lead to."
¡¡¡¡
Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal
to surmising or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford,
however, with renewed animation, soon went on--
¡¡¡¡
"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country
residence than I had ever expected to be. I can even
suppose it pleasant to spend _half_ the year in the country,
under certain circumstances, very pleasant. An elegant,
moderate-sized house in the centre of family connexions;
continual engagements among them; commanding the first society
in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading
it even more than those of larger fortune, and turning
from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing
worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person one feels
most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful
in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not
envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_."
"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say.
"Come, come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be
severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing
her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours. I expect
we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year.
Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing;
for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to
fill her house, and give the best balls in the country."
¡¡¡¡
Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into
thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end
of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah! here he is."
It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund,
who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant.
"My sister and Mr. Bertram. I am so glad your eldest
cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There is
something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so formal,
so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."
¡¡¡¡
"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me,
the sound of _Mr._ Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning,
so entirely without warmth or character! It just stands
for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness
in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown;
of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe
the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."
¡¡¡¡
"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund
or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill,
the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than
Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint
them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors
at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?"
¡¡¡¡
Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the
first time of his seeing them together since the beginning
of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing
of with great satisfaction. A friendship between two so
very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated,
that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only,
or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship.
¡¡¡¡
"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for
our imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting
down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated
and supplicated never to do so again?"
¡¡¡¡
"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either
of you had been sitting down alone; but while you
do wrong together, I can overlook a great deal."
¡¡¡¡
"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant,
"for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the
staircase window, and then they were walking."
¡¡¡¡
"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild,
that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly
thought imprudent. Our weather must not always be judged
by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater liberties
in November than in May."
¡¡¡¡
"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with!
There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not
know how much we have been suffering, nor what chills
we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one
of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with.
I had very little hope of _him_ from the first; but you,
Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right
to alarm you a little."
¡¡¡¡
"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not
the smallest chance of moving me. I have my alarms,
but they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could
have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp
east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are
some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because
the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be,
that we shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost
setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert)
by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse,
cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I
particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday,
because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it
on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep
beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances,
and make me think the weather most unseasonably close."
"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!"
said Miss Crawford archly. "Commend me to the nurseryman
and the poulterer."
¡¡¡¡
"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery
of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad
of your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be. But we
have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have me do?"
¡¡¡¡
"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already:
be plagued very often, and never lose your temper."
¡¡¡¡
"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations,
Mary, live where we may; and when you are settled in town
and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you
with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer,
perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness
and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds,
will be drawing forth bitter lamentations."
¡¡¡¡
"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything
of the sort. A large income is the best recipe for
happiness I ever heard of. It certainly may secure
all the myrtle and turkey part of it."
¡¡¡¡
"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which,
to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
¡¡¡¡
"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?"
¡¡¡¡
"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely
beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her
degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of
thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming.
My intentions are only not to be poor."
¡¡¡¡
"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants
to your income, and all that. I understand you--and a
very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life,
with such limited means and indifferent connexions.
What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have
not much time before you; and your relations are in no
situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you
by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence.
Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not
envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you.
I have a much greater respect for those that are honest
and rich."
¡¡¡¡
"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor,
is precisely what I have no manner of concern with.
I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have
determined against. Honesty, in the something between,
in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I
am anxious for your not looking down on."
¡¡¡¡
"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher.
I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity
when it might rise to distinction."
¡¡¡¡
"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise
to any distinction?"
¡¡¡¡
This was not so very easy a question to answer,
and occasioned an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady
before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament,
or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."
¡¡¡¡
"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being
in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an
especial assembly for the representation of younger sons
who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added,
in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions which I
should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance--
absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--
but they are of a different character."
¡¡¡¡
A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed
a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side
as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food
for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose
side she was now following the others, she had nearly
resolved on going home immediately, and only waited
for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock
at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she
had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought
the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take
leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue.
With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus;
and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that
his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he
had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.
¡¡¡¡
Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting
Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone;
but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied
her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass.
Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to
speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he
_did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave.
She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting,
Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton
with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an
unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant,
with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the
pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention,
so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of
Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment;
and while stammering out her great obligation, and her
"but she did not suppose it would be in her power,"
was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund,
delighted with her having such an happiness offered,
and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence,
that she had no objection but on her aunt's account,
could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty
of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice
that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny
would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such
a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled,
that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant
might expect her.
¡¡¡¡
"And you know what your dinner will be,"
said Mrs. Grant, smiling--"the turkey, and I assure you
a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her husband,
"cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."
¡¡¡¡
"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better;
I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house.
But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take
their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare.
A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we
have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton,
or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."
¡¡¡¡
The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the
immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund
spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly
desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with
so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;
for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful
and indisposed for any other.
¡¡¡¡CHAPTER XXIII
¡¡¡¡
"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram.
"How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never
dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot
spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"
¡¡¡¡
"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund,
preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately
say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go;
and I can see no reason why she should not."
¡¡¡¡
"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her?
She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now
and then, but she never asked Fanny."
¡¡¡¡
"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--" said Fanny,
in a self-denying tone.
¡¡¡¡
"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening."
¡¡¡¡
"To be sure, so I shall."
¡¡¡¡
"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."
¡¡¡¡
"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will
ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can
do without her."
¡¡¡¡
"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my
father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's
being accepted or not; and I think he will consider
it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny,
that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted."
¡¡¡¡
"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very
much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."
¡¡¡¡
There was nothing more to be said, or that could be
said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present;
but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's
comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady
Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his
looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation
to his dressing-room, she called him back again,
when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas,
stop a moment--I have something to say to you."
¡¡¡¡
Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble
of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to;
and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny
immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself
the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more
than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--
more anxious perhaps than she ought to be--for what was
it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle
were to be a great while considering and deciding,
and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed
to her, and at last decide against her, she might not
be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent.
Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady
Bertram's part, with--"I have something to tell you
that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny
to dinner."
¡¡¡¡
"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish
the surprise.
¡¡¡¡
"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"
¡¡¡¡
"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch;
"but what is your difficulty?"
¡¡¡¡
Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up
the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole;
and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant
never used to ask her."
¡¡¡¡
"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund,
"that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable
a visitor for her sister?"
¡¡¡¡
"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a
short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case,
could anything, in my opinion, be more natural.
Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady
Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_
time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in
giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel
as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go,
since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."
¡¡¡¡
"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?"
¡¡¡¡
"Indeed I think you may."
¡¡¡¡
"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here."
¡¡¡¡
"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend
the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home."
¡¡¡¡
"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."
¡¡¡¡
The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her
door in his way to his own.
¡¡¡¡
"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without
the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side.
He had but one opinion. You are to go."
¡¡¡¡
"Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply;
though when she had turned from him and shut the door,
she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad?
for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there
to pain me?"
¡¡¡¡
In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad.
Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes,
it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the
day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before;
and though now going only half a mile, and only to
three people, still it was dining out, and all the little
interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves.
She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought
to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste;
for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody,
and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence
of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in
a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening
her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much
as possible.
¡¡¡¡
"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet
with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be
very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you,
and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look
upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are
aware that there is no real occasion for your going into
company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all;
and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated.
Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant
as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment
is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant
thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice
of you, or else it would never have come into her head,
and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
had been at home, you would not have been asked at all."
¡¡¡¡
Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all
Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found
herself expected to speak, could only say that she was
very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening
work in such a state as to prevent her being missed.
¡¡¡¡
"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you,
or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you
may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have
a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_.
But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of
all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot
but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant
should not contrive better! And round their enormous great
wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully!
Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I
came away, as anybody in their senses would have done,
instead of having that absurd new one of his own,
which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here,
how infinitely better it would have been! and how much
more he would have been respected! for people are never
respected when they step out of their proper sphere.
Remember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting
round that table. However, you will have dinner enough
on it for ten, I dare say."
¡¡¡¡
Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.
¡¡¡¡
"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their
rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me
think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you
are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech
and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward,
and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of
your cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia.
_That_ will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are,
you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford
is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to
be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night,
you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses.
Leave him to settle _that_."
¡¡¡¡
"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."
¡¡¡¡
"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely,
for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening
in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be
expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly
do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will
not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind
to what may happen, and take your things accordingly."
¡¡¡¡
Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her
own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could;
and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, just opening
the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you have the
carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment
which made it impossible for her to speak.
¡¡¡¡
"My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger,
"Fanny can walk."
¡¡¡¡
"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable
dignity, and coming farther into the room. "My niece
walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year!
Will twenty minutes after four suit you?"
¡¡¡¡
"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the
feelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris;
and not bearing to remain with her in what might seem
a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room,
having staid behind him only long enough to hear these
words spoken in angry agitation--
¡¡¡¡
"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind!
But Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund's account.
I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night."
¡¡¡¡
But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that
the carriage was for herself, and herself alone:
and her uncle's consideration of her, coming immediately
after such representations from her aunt, cost her
some tears of gratitude when she was alone.
¡¡¡¡
The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute
brought down the gentleman; and as the lady had, with a
most scrupulous fear of being late, been many minutes
seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them off
in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.
¡¡¡¡
"Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the
kind smile of an affectionate brother, "and tell you
how I like you; and as well as I can judge by this light,
you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?"
¡¡¡¡
"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me
on my cousin's marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I
thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and that I
might not have such another opportunity all the winter.
I hope you do not think me too fine."
¡¡¡¡
"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No,
I
see
no finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper.
Your gown seems very pretty. I like these glossy spots.
Has not Miss Crawford a gown something the same?"
¡¡¡¡
In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the
stable-yard and coach-house.
¡¡¡¡
"Heyday!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage!
who have they got to meet us?" And letting down the side-glass
to distinguish, "'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's barouche,
I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back
into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is
quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him."
¡¡¡¡
There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny
to say how very differently she felt; but the idea
of having such another to observe her was a great
increase of the trepidation with which she performed
the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.
¡¡¡¡
In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been
just long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the
smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing
round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution
of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.
A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund;
and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general;
and even to _her_ there might be some advantage in
his presence, since every addition to the party must
rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered
to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware
of this herself; for though she mus